


a ghost that lingers

by 1derspark



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: (not a main one), Angst, Character Death, Grief, M/M, Post-Canon, family trauma, is a 2k long pain train, my first contribution to this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26743552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1derspark/pseuds/1derspark
Summary: “I loved her. Even after everything she was still my sister,” Zuko says, but it’s thin and wavering, like he’s unsure. Trying to convince himself that it’s true. The soul-shaking notion that he dared to love his own flesh and blood. “Did she know that?”Sokka can’t say that she did, in the state he last saw Azula. He doesn’t have any warm fuzzy feelings for his husband’s psychotic sister who shot Zuko in the chest with a crackling blue lightning bolt. Some nights he’ll lean over Zuko in the moonlight and trace the many scars his family, his kingdom, his birthright had given him. He’s angry with them. But then he thinks of Katara and the village they called home. How they played and loved together with their family as if it were almost whole, smiles as bright as the snow, even in the shadow of war.Zuko didn’t have that. A tangible love written in laughter and child’s play. He supposes Azula didn’t either.(Or Zuko and Sokka come to terms with Azula's death)
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 127





	a ghost that lingers

**Author's Note:**

> *throws angst at the Zukka fandom and runs away*
> 
> Hi guys, my inner 10 year old is screaming because I wrote Avatar fanfic and Zukka fanfic at that. But with the ATLA renaissance going on I'll be damned if I don't throw a fic or two in the ring. 
> 
> Anyway this is really angsty and I have no idea where it came from. 
> 
> A big thank you to kellin who as always is a rock-solid beta who is the best person on the planet <3
> 
> Enjoy!

(Or Zuko and Sokka come to terms with Azula’s death)

Sokka knows of what must be ten thousand different places in the Royal Palace to hide away from the guards.

It’s a tad bit concerning, if he’s at all honest with himself. The tactician in him aches to break down the ancestral home of the Fire Lords if only to better protect the current one he loves so dearly.

Security-wise the whole thing is a mess. It’s been proven that an assassin or evildoer or rebellious ne’er-do-well can most certainly sneak their way into the palace. It’s happened before. Two months ago, Sokka stood in Izumi’s nursery clutching the wailing five-year-old to his chest, while Zuko raged hot fire outside at his guards, who had somehow almost missed a man in black climbing up the outside wall to their daughter’s window. 

Sokka’s not comfortable with it. Sexy shenanigans he’s conducted with Zuko in those dark little corners aside, it’s not worth the risk of their lives. 

He does not like them. And he really doesn’t like them now.

One, he’s already behind. He’d just come back from a rather stressful trip to the Southern Water Tribe after his dad had suffered through a nasty flu knocking him down and out for two weeks or so. Sokka had no qualms stepping in as chief for his father, but more often than not he and Katara, with a young Bumi clinging to her leg, had done little but hover over his bedside. Hakoda wasn’t getting any younger, and a flu wasn’t so little a thing to ignore.

“Sokka,” Zuko had said to him the night before he left, a brow raised and his arms crossed from where he’d lain in bed, “you need to go see him.”

“I can’t,” Sokka had said, waving him off for the fourth or fifth time since Bato had sent him a letter with the news. “I have ten different things I need to be doing. The new Northern ambassador is coming to visit in a month and from what I’ve heard he’s not particularly inclined towards  _ you  _ or  _ me. _ I can’t just leave—”

“Yes, you can.” That time when he spoke it was with his Fire Lord voice, commanding and stern, rarely ever used between them. But it caught Sokka’s attention and stopped his pacing which he suspected was Zuko’s aim anyway. 

Sokka had sighed and come over to their bed where Zuko had his hand resting, palm upwards in a welcoming gesture. 

He’d waited until Sokka put their hands together, squeezed tight. “He’s your father,” Zuko had said. “Family is important. Everything will be fine. I’ll handle it.”

Zuko is as loving as he is pragmatic. That man did not wander into anything without some kind of tactical map drawn up in his mind. They’ve long matured from their days as teenagers, running half-assed into a battle they didn’t know they would win. Adults, as it turns out, do know better sometimes. 

But when Sokka comes back to port, exhausted and more than ready to jump into bed for a day-long slumber with his devastatingly handsome and loving husband, and sees the retinue of guards waiting for him, their faces tight with fear, he wishes he hadn't gone.

“What is it?” he demands, his body gone cold again as if he’d never left the South Pole.  _ Is it Izumi? Is my daughter sick? Oh, Spirits is it Zuko, what happened, why did I leave— _

“We’ve found the princess, Ambassador” one of the guards starts. But whatever must be showing on Sokka’s face has him backtracking. “No, no not Princess Izumi. She is alright. We found Princess Azula.”

That doesn’t make Sokka feel any better. He fingers the sword at his hip. He hasn’t seen Azula since they found Ursa, but he knows that his husband encountered her once more not too long after in a midst of one of her many coups. 

Still, Sokka was in his thirties. It had been more than fifteen years since he’d last seen her and at least a decade since she’s proven a real threat to Zuko and his reign. It’d been hard for Zuko, creating this tentative peace he’d drawn up and cultivated between the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes, even with all the war and horror and dead strewn between them. 

Sokka is surprised Azula hasn’t shown up sooner, there is a part of him that expected her to go out in a blaze of rage and fire. It seems he was wrong.

“Where is my husband?” Sokka asks the guards.

The lead guard shifts uneasily. “No one has seen the fire lord since the princesses’ body was brought back.”

Sokka’s chest is tight. He kind of wants to punch something, instead, he pushes past the retinue of guards, who scramble after him up to the palace. 

“The body,” he asks to no one in particular, short and blunt with the expectation of having an answer. 

“She is being tended to by the fire sages. She was… quite banged up,” someone answers.

Sokka rounds the corner to the turtleduck pond. There, running about the tree, squealing while a nursemaid runs after her, is Izumi. 

“Papa!” she screams and runs his way. 

Sokka crouches down low to catch his daughter, who flings herself headfirst into his chest. He falls back onto his butt with the impact, drawing out an exaggerated groan to make her giggle. 

“Nothing else is to be done with the body until I see Zuko,” Sokka says quietly to the guards over his shoulder, who bow and run off to inform the sages.

Jia, one of Izumi’s favored nursemaids, comes running from the pond to them, panting and red-faced, bits of her hair flying out from her bun. “I’m sorry, my Prince,” she says in between breaths, “she’s been particularly energized today.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sokka says. He turns to Izumi who’s peering up at him with those stunning golden eyes, Zuko’s eyes. “You’re just a lil’ stir crazy aren’t you.”

“Dad didn’t take me training this morning,” Izumi pouts. 

Sokka looks to Jia whose face is full of sympathy. When Izumi turned three Zuko started taking her out in the morning for form practice. Izumi wasn’t a firebender but she did have two master swordsmen for fathers. There was no reason she couldn’t learn such skills. Though she’s not exactly handling swords at five years old. Zuko wants her to have a routine, though Sokka also suspects he wants some set time spent with their daughter with all the meetings he’s in every day. 

If Zuko missed practice, then it must be very bad. 

“Well,” Sokka starts. “I’m going to go find him then. When I bring Dad back you can give him a piece of your mind, okay Izumi?”

She hums her agreement, kisses his cheek and hops away, making a run for what Sokka’s sure must be the kitchens.

“Izumi don’t run!” Jia shouts. She sighs but gives Sokka a fond, if exhausted, smile. 

“No one’s seen him since dawn,” she informs him. “The princess’ body is being handled, but some are unsure if she should be burned.”

There’s a question in there, if it’s for him, Sokka’s not sure. With Zuko gone for most of the day, it seems that everyone’s looking for answers and The Fire Lord’s husband doesn’t seem to be a bad bet. But Spirits know Azula deserves the honorable send-off of her forefathers. 

Zuko’s sister was a maniac, a psychotic crazy person who chased him and his friends halfway across the world and maimed more than one of them a few good times. Aang and Zuko have the scars to prove it. It’s hard to forgive someone for shooting a light bolt at his husband’s chest, but well, the royal fire nation family has never been well adjusted. Maybe she doesn’t deserve all of the blame, and she’s dead either way.

“I’ll deal with him,” Sokka replies. He squeezes her shoulder in comfort and jerks his head in the direction Izumi darted away. “I think you better catch her before she stuffs her face with fire gummies.”

Jia bows and hurries after his daughter, leaving Sokka to the turtleduck pond and the gardens beyond. 

It’s correct to assume that when Zuko is frustrated he comes here. Sokka couldn’t count the times he’d found his husband sitting in the wet grass before the pond, dirtying up his expensive robes, sadly tossing chunks of bread into the water, a soft hand brushing up against a turtleduckling’s fuzzy head. Spirits, he couldn’t tell you how many times he ended up in the same position, pressed against Zuko’s side as a point of comfort or an ear for the Fire Lord to rant to. The turtleduck pond was for when Zuko wanted to talk. 

He evidently didn’t now.

The turtleduck pond is only one of the many stops along the winding labyrinth of the Imperial Gardens. Sokka will give the original architects credit if only for the splendor of the gardens. You could get lost in them all day. From the various spatterings of ponds filled with colorful fish to the hedged mazes, to the one long stretch of dirt that’s covered in trellises ripe with red grapes in the summer seasons. Sokka takes great pleasure in pushing Zuko up against the wood when it’s hottest, and pressing the cool skin of a grape to his lips.

So beautiful, but Zuko, it seems, has manipulated the garden to his will and disappeared into it. Sokka damns the palace designers for what must be the tenth time today.

It takes time, but he finds Zuko by the grove of cherry blossom trees deeper in the bowels of the gardens. It’s the end of summer, edging into autumn and the trees are a wash of deep green drinking in the sun, hardier than those pink blossoms spring nurtured.

Sokka makes his entrance louder than he would on any other day. 

“Izumi is fine,” Zuko says first. His voice is rough, reminiscent of how Sokka often finds him speaking in the morning, all husky and warm, sending shivers down Sokka’s spine. But it’s almost dark, and Sokka has a feeling Zuko spent either the whole day screaming or not speaking at all.

“I saw her,” Sokka says. He comes up behind his husband and when Zuko doesn’t flinch, an act Sokka has spent years working on with him, but Zuko is only human and childhood trauma and distrust rears its head on the worst of days, he wraps his arms around Zuko’s waist with a contented sigh and rests his chin on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of ash and salt and fire lilies.

Zuko shudders, and brings a palm up to his face, rubbing it over his cheeks, his eyes, where no doubt tears have fallen. He’s still hiding.

“No, no,” Sokka says, pressing a kiss to Zuko’s neck, “don’t hide from me. You’ve been hiding all day. You’re hiding here.”

“Sokka, I can’t—” he starts, his voice cracks in the middle of it and he clears his throat. Tries again. “It’s too much right now.”

“Let me help you,” Sokka whispers. “Is it the body?”

“Yes,” Zuko says, then shakes his head. He turns in Sokka’s arms but doesn’t look at him. He tucks his face into the crook of Sokka’s neck, trying to take slow, measured breaths. “No, I don’t know. There should be a funeral, she deserves that, but there have already been protests from people about it.”

“They don’t matter,” Sokka says with conviction. No matter what he or anyone else thought of Azula this choice wasn’t theirs to make. “She wasn’t their sister. It’s for you to decide. As Fire Lord and as  _ Zuko.” _

Zuko doesn’t say anything simply breathing unsteadily into Sokka’s neck and for a minute all Sokka does is hold him close in the shade of the cherry blossom tree, running a hand up and down his spine. Up, down. Up, down. Breathe in and out. Breathe for me, baby.

When Zuko’s breathing is more steady he pulls out of the embrace, but intertwines their hands together. Sokka raises them both to his lips and kisses Zuko’s knuckles. 

“What do you need?” he asks. It’s all that matters right now. It’s what’s going to get them through this. Back to Zuko’s mornings with Izumi, kisses in the pink light of dawn, sweet and unhurried before the nation beckons them.

Zuko leans forward to press his forehead against Sokka’s. Then he lets go of their hands and turns back to the tree. 

“I need this to go away,” he says, throat thick. “I keep seeing her body. She was filthy. Running around in tattered pieces of cloth.” He laughs, but it’s chilling. “Her face was so smeared with soot I barely recognized her. She was older.”

“You haven’t seen her in years Zuko,” Sokka tries to placate. “You had no idea where she was. There wasn’t anything you could do for her.”

“I could have tried harder,” Zuko spits. When he looks back at Sokka it's under a curtain of silky black hair and the unmarred side of his face, that golden eye piercing and wet, glistening with tears he won’t let fall.

“I loved her. Even after everything she was still my sister,” Zuko says, but it’s thin and wavering, like he’s unsure. Trying to convince himself that it’s true. The soul-shaking notion that he dared to love his own flesh and blood. “Did she know that?”

Sokka can’t say that she did, in the state he last saw Azula. He doesn’t have any warm fuzzy feelings for his husband’s psychotic sister who shot Zuko in the chest with a crackling blue lightning bolt. Some nights he’ll lean over Zuko in the moonlight and trace the many scars his family, his kingdom, his birthright had given him. He’s angry with them. But then he thinks of Katara and the village they called home. How they played and loved together with their family as if it were almost whole, smiles as bright as the snow, even in the shadow of war.

Zuko didn’t have that. A tangible love written in laughter and child’s play. He supposes Azula didn’t either. 

“I don’t know,” he says carefully. He walks over and takes Zuko’s chin in his fingers and this time a tear comes down from his unscarred eye. Sokka wipes it off with a thumb. 

“But I do know that she is just as much a victim of Ozai as you were. Her shortcomings are not any fault of yours. You did your best.” He smiles, sadly. “We were kids, baby, we could save the world but that didn’t mean we could save everyone.”

It breaks him. Zuko collapses forward into his arms, and sobs, great heaving things he tries to suppress, the marker of a child in a house where such emotions are best kept quiet, smothered under a pillow or covers. 

Sokka catches him, rocking him in his arms. A gentle sway under the light of the setting sun. By the time he’s quieted down the air has begun to cool and all that’s there to guide them out of the maze is the flicker of the lantern posts and the few scant summer fireflies, hanging on valiantly. Sokka kisses him on the forehead and without a word leads him out.

First, Sokka takes Zuko to Izumi’s room where he hangs back in the doorway while Zuko stands, a sentinel over her bed and a whisper of a loving smile on his face. He brushes a hand over her hair, sweeping back a stray lock before turning back.

At their bedroom door are a group of guards and a lone fire sage. They all bow at their approach. The sage rises and wisely says nothing, waiting expectantly.

“She will be burned on the pyre,” Zuko says to the sage directly, voice like a blade, “as is her right. I will send you a list of attendees in the morning. Ask me no more.”

Zuko walks through them with his head held high, every footstep sure and pointed. Sokka shoots the fire sage a sharp confirming glance before following the Fire Lord.

Sokka does not sleep that night, he sits up against the headboard with a lapful of Zuko, running his fingers through his hair and scalp. Soothing, with nothing but the ghosts of the palace for company. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come check me out on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/1derspark)! I write for ATLA and The Old Guard atm, but hopefully The Witcher and Marvel in the future. I'm taking prompts and asks as well so feel free to drop me something! Or just come say hi :)
> 
> As always comments and kudos are appreciated and feed the beast!


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